


disintegrate upon impact

by harcourt



Series: component parts [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Captivity, Gang Rape, I wrote this for the kinkmeme, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensual Drug Use, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:19:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1526159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/7940.html?thread=15168260#t15168260">this</a> prompt where Clint is the only omega on the team, and it's not a problem until,</p><p>
  <i>the entire team is captured and BadGuyOfTheWeek doses Clint with drugs that not only render his suppressants inactive, but kick starts his heat into overdrive.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>They then lock Clint in one cell with a group of alphas and the rest of the Avengers in another cell.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	disintegrate upon impact

"All of us? Really? They got every single one of us?" Tony demands, of no one in particular, pacing and seething. "It's embarrassing is what it is."

"Sit, Tony." Steve sounds tired. Worried. They've brought Bruce and Natasha back, but not Clint. He's not a weak link, but people sometimes think he is. Tony almost feels sorry for them. 

"If they're going to interrogate anybody," he says, not sitting, "Why not me? You know I'll sing like a bird. It's not really my kind of thing, this" he gestures, wiggling his fingers distastefully, "pain stuff."

Natasha, across the cell, says, "They didn't do anything to me," and shrugs. She sounds more puzzled than relieved. Bruce makes a sound of agreement. He's sitting slouched against the wall, arms resting on bent knees. Thor mutters, "Aye," looking as put out about their capture as Tony feels.

"What is this place?" Tony says, "We're being held with _thugs_." He jerks a thumb at the other cells. "It's like they don't even care that we're the Avengers."

"Or that you're Tony Stark," Natasha adds.

"Yes. Exactly. Thank you."

And then they bring Clint back and they've _definitely_ done something to him, even if they hadn't the rest of them. "They always think he'll talk," Tony says, and shakes his head a little. He puts his arms through the bars to lean there and try to get a look at Clint. They haven't put him back in with them, steering him instead to an empty bit of concrete floor where they push Clint down till he sits, leaving him outside the cell, arms secured behind him. He's barefoot and not even wearing his own clothes. He looks like he's wearing some kind of hospital get-up, white t-shirt and what might be pajama pants. "Hey Clint," Tony says, and nods at him, "Fashion statement?"

"You know that SHIELD shit pinches," Clint says, with a grin, "I'm just getting settled in." There's a bruise at the corner of his mouth where it looks like someone's hit him.

"They took your clothes?" Bruce says, coming up to stand next to Tony, "Why?" 

"Got tired of looking for concealed weapons?" Clint offers, then his expression turns serious, "They did tests." He shrugs with one shoulder and looks up questioningly. Tony nods.

"Yeah. Us too. But we got to keep our pants." Tony says. He pauses to look around for their captors, and when he finds them out of earshot asks, "You okay?"

Clint nods, "Yeah. They--" he pauses to make a sort of noncommittal gesture, quirking his head vaguely, wrinkling his nose a bit, "They give you anything?"

"They _gave you something_?" Natasha is suddenly there, voice low and fierce. "What?"

Clint shrugs again, says, "Not sure. Injections."

"I got one," Bruce says, quietly, "To keep the other guy down, I think." Clint looks up at him with a wry smirk.

"They think I have powers? I'm flattered." Now that his face is turned to them, Tony can see his pupils are blown, his eyes huge and dark in his face. Clint blinks several times, like the light is uncomfortable, but he doesn't seem doped up, alert and restless. 

Bruce nods, gets down to a crouch so he'll be on Clint's level and studies him carefully for long moments. Says, "Clint? Listen to me," Clint straightens a bit, taking notice of Bruce's tone. "Whatever happens, I want you to try and stay calm, alright?" Clint glares.

"Don't use that voice on me."

"Okay. Sorry," Bruce lets his breath out in a soft huff, exasperated and fond. It's not quite a laugh.

"And don't use _that_ voice either," Clint bites out.

" _Okay_. But. Tell me you heard me?" 

"I heard you," Clint says irritably and rolls his eyes. 

"Okay," Bruce says again, and gets up a bit stiffly. He brushes past Tony and Natasha to get to Steve. 

Tony says, "What? He's fine, right? He doesn't _have_ any powers to supp--- _oh_. Oh shit." Bruce gives him a smile that has no humor in it whatsoever, amused only at how long it's taken Tony to catch up. He looks back at Clint and Bruce grabs his arm.

"Don't. Let him rest while he can." Behind them, Clint makes a comment and Natasha chuckles, and Bruce give him a look and let’s go, moving away to slip in next to Steve and say, "We think they kept Clint because he's an omega." His voice is low, pitched so it wouldn't carry. "They gave him something, and I don't know if it's a side effect or their intent, but it's counteracting his suppressants." Steve's face stays carefully neutral as Bruce continues, "I think he's starting to cycle."

\-----

They come back with a tray of medical equipment. Bottles, syringes. Tony's relieved that's all there is and there's no other implements of torture included in the lot. Clint watches them, looking unimpressed. On their side of the bars, Natasha goes professionally imperturbable.

There's the snap of medical gloves and Clint glances at them for a second, out of the corner of his eye. Shifts his weight restlessly. His first sign of unease. Tony gives him a grin and turns around, so the coming display of helpless won't be quite so public. Natasha's got her eye on him anyway, and Steve is watching surreptitiously, from outside Clint's line of sight. 

Tony hears the rattle of pills. Sees Steve's eyes narrow. Even looking away, it's still way too easy to follow the action.

\-----

They don't give Clint a chance to fight, getting him pinned before they even break out the syringe. It takes three of them to hold him flat to the floor so they can administer the injection, and then one extra to get him up, pry his jaw open, and force pills down his throat. Clint spits and gags and swears. Keeps spitting once they leave him in peace again. They leave the tray, and Steve knows that means they aren't done yet.

Bruce gets back by the bars, saying, "Clint? Clint, are you--?"

"That's _disgusting_ ," Clint says, looking distressed about it. Like that's what they should be worried about. He's starting to look a little hazy, some of the hard edges of his attitude softened. What Steve thinks is supposed to be a smart-ass comment comes out sounding like a genuine complaint.

A couple hours later they give Clint another dose, and not long after they do Steve can _smell it_. Clint's definitely cycling. He sees Thor notice the same thing, and look up, head over to the bars. Clint looks over at them and then down, eyes fixed on the floor. The corner of his mouth quirks, but it's not his usual amused expression. "Hey, guys," he says, and Steve looks at the way they're all pressed up against the bars and smiles grimly himself.

"Okay, everyone. Back up." They don't seem to realize they're being effected until he says it, then they start and shake it off. Tony feigns indifference, staying put, but going all casual and relaxed. Steve gives him a little push out of the way, then gets down the way Bruce had, to Clint's level. There's no sense making him look up from his knees, in this condition. "Clint," he says slowly, and Clint shakes his head and doesn't look up. 

"Clint," he tries, firmer, and Clint laughs hollowly. 

"Don't," he snaps, then, softer, "Cap. Don't do that to me." His head is bowed with more than just not wanting to meet their eyes. 

"Give me a status report," Steve says, carefully keeping his tone light. "How're you doing?" 

Clint lets out a bitter snort of laughter. Glances at him quickly, and away again. His mouth pulls into an angry sneer. "My status is _in heat_ , Cap," he says, "My status is, _begging to get fucked_." He shifts uncomfortably. Swallows. 

Steve says, "You're doing fine, Clint. Hang in there."

But by the time they administer the next dose, Clint is clearly _not_ fine. He's fogged as hell when they tip his head back and push pills into his mouth. Clint snarls, but they ignore it as they uncap the syringe and bury it in his arm. They don't talk, or pay any heed to Tony, who calls indignant questions at them.

The alphas in the other cells have taken notice, too, eyes as intent on Clint as their own had been. Steve carefully doesn't look at them, doesn't want to draw Clint's attention to them.

\-----

He's never had a heat like this, sharp, and drug-driven. Usually he's taking meds to mute it. _This_ goes from itch, to want, to need, to pain way too fast. His vision is swimming, and even the unwelcome touch of their captors' hands when they administer more drugs makes his nerves _sing_. Normally, he'd have a couple of days before it was this bad. Enough time to get intervention, or to arrange something to see him through the heat. To _adjust_. 

This forced heat washes through his system like a flash flood, too sudden, too intense, too _fast_. He can't keep up.

Steve's talking, calming, questioning, and he _can't_. He wishes his arms were loose, because he can barely hold himself up anymore. He wants to belly-crawl to Steve and inhale his alpha scent, put his head in Steve's hands and--

And he can smell other alphas. The place _reeks_ of it, suddenly, and the smell slams through him like some kind of drug hit. He hears himself whine, and someone laugh. Then his arms are cut free and he's allowed to fall forward. He manages a rough, "Cap?" but his own voice sounds like it comes from far away.

\-----

Clint's sweated through his clothes, panting and shaking, and looking like a man wracked by fever. They're not touching him, letting him get ramped up on drugs and need, and it's clear Clint is in agony, farther gone than any omega Bruce has ever seen. Natasha is antsy with rage and worry and with the thick smell of omega in cycle. They all are. Even Steve, who's doing the best job of appearing composed. Thor looks distressed and angry. He has his hands wrapped around the bars until his knuckles are white.

It won't give way. They've tried.

Clint makes a soft pleading noise, breath harsh and ragged, and he's _nobody's_. Something inside Bruce snarls, uncomfortably like the other guy rousing, but not quite. He squashes the territorial feeling, to ask, "Clint?"

Clint says, "Please," like it's the only word he knows. He says it softly, hopelessly. Room full of alphas, and he's lying untouched and it's gotta be doing wonders to screw Clint up even more.

"We can't get to you, Clint," he says, "If we could, believe me, we'd be there already. Be calm, okay?" Clint nods a little, but it's an automatic response.

\-----

They get Clint up.

Then they walk him across the room, and give him to the other alphas. 

Tony's heart stops. Beside him, Natasha howls in rage. Yells, "Clint! Goddammit! Clint!" and throws herself at the bars until Steve pulls her back.

Bruce just sinks to the floor and Tony knows that for once, he's regretting the Hulk's absence.

\-----

Clint's uncoordinated, but he _fights_ , clawing back as they pull his clothing off, kicking when he has the chance to land it, lashing out with fists and elbows and even teeth. 

But the heat makes his limbs weak, his reactions slow, and they eventually get him down and strip him. Bind his wrists with his torn shirt. He twists away, but there's no place to get away _to_.

\-----

They get Clint pinned. Steve was expecting it, but it still takes the breath out of him. He watches them play with Clint, drawing out the desperate want of his heat. Watches Clint writhe and struggle and try to hurt them, exhausting himself, not putting any dent in their enthusiasm.

Tony says, "Fuck. _Fuck_ ," heartfelt and furious and sick. Clint cries out when they finally get him still. A sound that's more anger than scared or hurt. They talk to him as they take him, praising, encouraging, but they're not gentle. Clint's just an omega, tossed to them as a plaything. 

"I can't watch this," Tony says, but he doesn't look away. It's impossible to.

Clint gets someone in the head with a knee. There's laughter.

Natasha says, "When we get out of here? That one's mine."

Thor says, "Then I will have the rest."

\-----

They bring Clint back, after, naked and still burning with heat. He stumbles and drops to the floor as soon as he's pushed into the cell, and huddles there, shaking. 

"Sit down, everyone," Steve says, quiet but allowing no protest. He shoots Tony a hard look, just in case, but Tony puts his hands up and sits back. "Nobody touch him. Nobody _move_." He waits till they settle, then says, "Clint? Come here."

Clint shakes his head, eyes frantically searching their faces, inhaling alpha smell.

"They won't touch you," Steve promises, "They'll let you through. Come on." Then, when Clint still hesitates, " _Clint_."

Clint makes a soft noise, and crawls, hands and knees, the short distance to Steve, and stops again. Touches tentatively like he's not sure it's welcome. "Shh. It's okay. Just don't want to startle you, okay? You go where you like, and we'll let you." But he pulls Clint gently against his chest, settling him.

Clint whines, and Thor reaches out to pet him, stroking from shoulder to bruised hip. Steve feels Clint shudder, and try to squirm closer. He buries his face against Steve's shoulder, hand griping and releasing on his arm by turns, not quite hard enough to hurt. His breath leaves him in what's not quite sobs, choked off in his throat. "Easy," Steve murmurs. "We got you now." 

Thor's hand stills, gripping Clint's hipbone, and Clint goes very still. Slowly, he shifts a leg, making room for Thor. His hand tightens on Steve's bicep and now it _does_ hurt. Steve pets him, drops his head to inhale Clint's scent, omega and almost overwhelmingly intense, but with the bitter hint of something underneath that. Artificial and unpleasantly sharp. Thor says, "Do not spread for me, Clint. That is not my intention," and Clint flinches at the correction, makes a distressed sound into Steve's shoulder.

"Whoa. Easy," Steve murmurs, "You're okay." Clint takes a hitching breath, makes a series of confused, abortive gestures. Thor takes his hand away.

"I did not mean to distress--"

"It's alright," Steve interrupts, and adjust Clint closer, so he's lying pressed up along his side, half on top of him. Clint's _filthy_ , streaked all over with blood and dust from the floor. With other alpha's come. "We got anything to clean him up with?" Steve asks, and Clint bucks, struggling.

Thor's hand drops back to his hip, steadying. "Be still," he says, and Clint does, but his scent floods with fear.

"Oh boy," Tony says, sliding in next to Steve, on Clint's other side. He's got Bruce's jacket--no Hulk means no shredded clothing--and tucks it over Clint's shoulders. "What are you guys _doing_ to him?"

Clint stinks like alphas, and not the ones he's with. Even as far under as he is, he has to know it. Has to know that it's going to spark angry territorial disputes. And Steve _is_ angry. Furious. Clint is _theirs_. "He knows he smells different," Steve says, hand stroking Clint's head, trying to calm him.

"Well, I am here, as always, to solve your problems, Barton," Tony says, producing a bottle of water and rags torn from someone's clothing. It's not nearly enough, but it's something.

"Bruce still dressed at all?" Steve asks, recognizing the pattern. Tony grins.

"Hulk or no Hulk, he ends up naked."

\-----

Clint gets agitated again as Tony runs a wet cloth over him, cleaning his face first and then his hands before moving on. Clint shoves at him. He still stinks like fear. "Hey," Tony says, then "Hey!" as Natasha pulls him back and takes his place. 

She scrutinizes Clint for a moment, before opening her arms for him, the question on her face clearly for Steve's benefit, to soothe his alpha instincts. She's not _asking_ anything. Steve nods and nudges Clint over, keeping a guiding hand--a _possessive_ hand, he has to admit--on his shoulder.

Natasha wraps her arms around Clint, gently, murmuring in Russian. Clint resists for a second, then gives in, tucking himself against her. She's an alpha, and Clint is understandably wary, but she's _Natasha_ and slowly, his scent clears, leaving only the intoxication of _omega-in-heat_ and the bitter undertone of the drugs. "Tell me you're back," Natasha says and there's no command in it at all, "Talk to me."

"Couldn't." Clint stops. Swallows. Takes a breath. "I couldn't stop them." Natasha nods against his head. 

"I know."

"Maybe if I’d had a--"

"I know."

Steve feels him shudder and start shaking again. He says, "You did good, Clint. You did really good." He wants to take Clint back from Natasha. Soothe the heat out of him. He settles for smoothing a hand over the back of Clint's head.

"I'm not--not _yours_ ," Clint grits out, "I don't _have_ to be good for you."

"No. Of course you don't," Bruce says. He's come closer, drawn by Clint's heat, as effected as the rest of them. They've crowded around again, but Clint's too far gone to really notice. He's shivering with need, and moans when Bruce touches him, checking for injury. Scrapes, bruises, minor cuts. They've roughed Clint up, but there's no serious damage to his body. Nothing that's a medical emergency. Bruce eases him out of Natasha's arms. Gets him sitting and takes the bottle of water from Tony. Presses it into Clint's hands. "Drink, okay?"

Clint's hands shake, but he manages on his own. The lacerations around his wrists make Bruce tense, afraid the rage flooding through him will wake the other. It doesn't. The Hulk's presence is a sick, twisting coil in his belly, surging upwards sometimes, but never more than that. 

He reaches to steady Clint, putting a hand to his elbow. Clint's doing fine, and Bruce knows it's just an excuse to touch him. A small concession to the _omega omega omega_ that Clint's scent is sending screaming through him.

Clint chokes and coughs. Water trickles down his chin, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. Hands the bottle back with a murmur Bruce can't decipher. Sits on his knees, _shaking_. 

And then Steve says, "Clint," and Clint lets his breath out in a relieved sigh, his head cocking towards Steve. He glances at Bruce, unsure, then at Tony. Tony grins, not his usual shit-eating sarcastic one, but a soft look he usually reserves for Pepper and robots. He makes a shooing gesture at Clint with his fingers. 

"Well, go on," he says, "our fearless leader summons."

"I don't," Clint starts, but never finishes the _need your permission_. He does, confused by heat and the presence of too many alphas, pulled in too many directions.

\-----

Steve smells like alpha. They all do, but Steve's scent swamps them. Sends Clint into a spiral of need and want. "Cap?"

"Come on," Steve says, gentle, but firm enough that it draws a whimper from Clint.

"No," he says, breathy, "Don't," but he's turning back to face him, the floor hard under his knees. The jacket slithers from his shoulders. Steve's holding a hand out and Clint finally, finally, presses his face to it. He has to bow his head to do it. Feels a hand on his back, firmly moving up and down his spine to settle finally on the back of his neck. Fingers gently curving around it.

Clint gasps, lets his knees slide further apart. There's no push from the hand at his neck, but he presses further into Steve's hand. Hears Steve say, "Tony. Tony, no,' and it's gone. Instead, Steve's finger tighten under his jaw and turns his face up.

"Clint? Look at me. You're fine. No one wants that from you right now." It's a lie, and Clint can smell it on him, but Steve's voice is even and sure. "Nod if you understand me." 

Clint does. Steve says, "Good." 

"No," Clint says, stubborn resistance shooting through him as he meets Steve's eyes. "I'm _not_." 

He almost flinches. Expects some kind of retaliation at the rebuff, but Steve says, "Okay," and smiles. Clint relaxes. Leans closer until he's flat against Steve's chest again, pressed against warm and alpha and _Steve_. Safe with Nat close enough to press along his side.

He sleeps.

\-----

Clint drifts awake enough to rock against Steve's thigh, then goes under again, the unnatural heat burning through his reserves. It's a mercy, because anything they could do to relieve his pain would be a violation, and Clint's had more than enough of that. Already, Steve is afraid of how he'll react when the heat fades. Clint whimpers softly, breath warm against his ribs and Thor reaches over and ruffles his hair in a way Clint would never allow, normally.

Now, his breath leaves him in a soft huff and he squirms against Steve, body relaxed and warm. He mutters in his sleep, and Steve puts an arm around him, holding him close until he stills.

\-----

Clint's woken by a wave of heat. Bruce can smell it on him, watches him squirm and listens to the soft pleas he mumbles into Steve's shoulder. 

Natasha's murmuring to calm him, voice soft, when their captors return. One of them nods at Clint. "If you're not using him," he says, and it's enough. 

The sick coil of rage that's been twisting in Bruce's belly goes painfully tight, then snaps. Overpowering whatever drug he'd been given. The world goes red, then green, then dark.

The last thing he hears is Tony, saying, "I guess we're not waiting for that rescue anymore, huh guys?" and the noise of something crashing.

\-----

He wakes up with steel walls around him and Steve and Tony's faces hovering over him. Groans out a low, "Ugh." 

"Welcome back, Doc," Steve says, coming into slow focus over him. They're not in danger, because Steve is smiling, tired but genuine and after a couple of wobbly attempts, Bruce sits up. 

Clint is on the stretcher next to his, mostly awake but with an IV line in his arm. Fluids, to flush the drugs from his system. Someone's cleaned him up, but he looks awful--pale, his face smudged with bruises and scrapes, his eyes shadowed. Bruce swings his legs over the side of the stretcher and sits up. Reaches to brush a hand over the side of Clint's face, wiping away sweat, smoothing back hair. Taking liberties, maybe, but Clint doesn't flinch.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, "I'm sorry it took the other guy so long."

Clint blinks drowsily at him then says, "Nah. You did good, Doc." He's warm against Bruce's hand.

"You too, Clint."


End file.
